Hyacinthus
by hikachu
Summary: During the Spanish rule in South Italy, Antonio, a young priest, is sent by his superiors to Naples, where he meets Romano, the son of a prostitute. AU. Shota.


Fernando Domingo Ruiz de Castro Andrade y Portugal became viceroy of Naples on a sunny day of July, in the year of Our Lord 1599. He took on his new role wearing elegant clothes that became quickly drenched in sweat—refined fabric sticking to his back and flabby stomach as the rings, golden and numerous, seemed to become narrower and narrower around his fingers with each passing second. Reddening and plump, they resembled raw sausages, is what the Neapolitans, as unforgiving as the summer, pointed out upon seeing the man that they would learn to know as Ferdinando Ruiz di Castro.

It was exactly after one week and two days since that event, that Father Antonio Fernandez Carriedo saw the Kingdom of Naples with his own eyes for the first time.

At first, the land had been nothing more than a shadow, a blurred silhouette of grays and greens melting into sky and sea; then, as the ship approached the harbor, the city came to life and Antonio could finally see the castles and meager houses and the churches, almost as grand as the royal palaces, greeting him like a cloth of earthy colors draped over the hills and planes that made up Naples.

On the pier and the land beyond, he saw children dressed in rags chasing each other, women with sunburned shoulders and heavy baskets pressed against their side and hip, men with rough hands and smelling of ocean that sorted fish and fixed heavy nets. Mingling with them there were sailors of course, and merchants, artisans; perhaps even a few nobles. It was noon and some held buns of fried dough or small fish, sprinkled with salt, between their hands; the bitter stench of oil hung heavily in the atmosphere together with the salty essence of the sea and that of sweat. Everyone spoke too loudly and too quickly. Somewhere, someone was singing.

Antonio found himself longing to smile and unable to. His first impression of the city was mixed, uncertain, confusing: he couldn't decide if Naples was a goddess bustling with joy and life or a whore with rotting sores between her legs, madly enjoying her last days. It was a place that should have only existed in a grotesque sort of fairy tale, completely new and terrible, and at the same time, it was nostalgic; it reminded Antonio of Madrid, home; of its sun and its friendly people, and the warm, sleepy afternoons spent reading forbidden books.

And he still felt unsure when he did smile, finally, setting foot on land for the first time in days, sweat trickling down his forehead, and back and arms under his black cassock. Two burly men carried for him the chests his mother had personally stuffed with everything she believed he, the only son and heir of the Carriedo family, would need to live with befitting dignity in this new land.

"Don Antonio, Father".

A middle-aged man with his servants approached Antonio, presenting himself as the one Archbishop Alfonso Gesualdo had sent to greet and guide him to his new home in Via Toledo, and the church that from today onwards, would be entrusted to his care.

Antonio's smile widened out of gratefulness and then became just a bit strained as he realized that this man, rich and noble and of Spanish descent, expressed himself almost in the same, jumbled way the dirty children dashing around them did. Antonio remembered Francis' smirk as he tugged his copy of the _Canzoniere_ away from his hands; it had happened only three days before his departure. "I admit I'm no expert when it comes to those lands, my friend, but I hear Petrarch will not make communicating with the locals any easier," he had said.

Francis, Antonio now realized, had been right.

If Italian was like fresh spring water he could easily scoop up between his palms and drink, this dialect – Neapolitan – was that same water muddled with mysterious ingredients; perhaps a love potion, perhaps poison. Perhaps both, because eros and thanatos are closer than most would like to admit.

"Ah," Antonio could hear Gilbert snickering in his head. "Isn't this wonderful? You ask to be shipped to the savages in the New World, and they send you in a different place, sure, but it's still as bad as the Americas!" is what his friend would have said. Gilbert was never serious about anything, after all.

Antonio shook his head and offered a new, bright smile to the man in front of him. If this was a trial, he would overcome it. If it wasn't – Antonio was sure – he would still learn something from this, from Naples and its people, for nothing happens without reason: there is no coincidence, he reminds himself; only God's will and his plans.

"Thank you very much. Please, lead the way". The other grinned. Antonio guessed it must have been because of his thick accent and laughed.

* * *

><p>Romano was Romano because his father was a nobleman from Rome—or so the rumors said.<p>

The mystery of his birth had become a legend of sorts among the inhabitants of the Quartieri Spagnoli; a tale vague enough to be twisted into something sordid or romantic depending on the mood and the needs of the resident whores as they waited for a client to pass by.

Romano himself, however, was simply the child of one of said whores. It was perhaps the fact that his mother hadn't given him away at birth and his unusual name, that led others to speculate about his father and the relationship – if there had even been one in the first place – between his parents.

Rumors aside, neither man nor child with his measly thirteen years of life, Romano was known in the area for getting into trouble with the other scugnizzi, running errands for the prostitutes living in the Quartieri and just anyone with enough money to pay for his services. He was also a gifted thief, quiet and agile and as fast as the wind when he ran. He didn't talk much, and when he did, it was mostly to yell profanities and out of anger. Nobody was particularly nice to him and, in turn, he wasn't particularly nice to anyone except women, and not always.

Mistrustful, sly, lazy and bitter, but also young and pretty with his fine hair and bronzed skin, even when covered in dirt (which was most of the time), Romano had the nature of a cat and the enchanting appearance of those mischievous creatures that used to dwell in the forests of Greece during the Golden Age, back when the gods walked alongside mortals. A perfect child of this new Babylon known as Naples.

Antonio met him on the day after his arrival, and was immediately reminded of Ovid's sensous verses.

They met, to be more exact, in the sacristy of the church of the Immaculate Conception and Purification of Mary, when Antonio, after a meager breakfast, entered the room to get ready for the morning office and found Romano there, clutching the golden chalice meant to hold the sacramental wine for the Eucharist.

The child stared at him, all wide eyes and tense limbs, and Antonio knew he had to act, quickly, and he knew what the right thing to do was but, oh, as he grasped the thin wrist, all he could think of were things he should have never read, things he should have left behind with the wild nights spent together with Francis and Gilbert as they travelled across Europe—

"You shouldn't do this," he whispered with a warm smile on his lips.

However, Antonio being Antonio—or perhaps for other reasons he couldn't, didn't want to understand at that moment, the reproach didn't sound like a reproach at all. And yet they were both trembling, enclosed in a quiet panic; wondering.

"Come to mass, next Sunday," _and confess yourself to Heaven through me; and I'll help you; because every good Christian should—you are a good Christian yes?_, Antonio couldn't decide why he was saying this now.

The only response he got was a kick, powerful and unexpected enough to have him drop to his knees, and then Romano was running away, like a nymph would from a satyr.

It all happened so quickly that Romano's presence in the sacristy felt already like a distant dream. The chalice, rolling on the floor and still warm, was the only proof of his existence.

For several minutes, Antonio could do nothing but stare at it, the thick air of Naples clouding his senses; Romano's eyes his reason.


End file.
